She claps her hands, thrice just so
He heeds her not, the cad
And flings his scarf with evil grin
Content to stoke the mad.
He shelters midst the weeping drips
And wails a sad refrain
Of fairy dust and sparkly nips
That doth invade his drain.
With snarly snickers and snarky huffs
Up-turned toes proclaim his anxious plight
As skyward wing’d motes and puffs
Flit round pale silver light.
I shall not yield before such strife
The wee one doth proclaim
For misery is my lot in life
A creature quite insane.
About Nya Rawlyns
Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true. Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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